


Quercus Robur

by coinin



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Gen, Magic Realism, Trees
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2011-10-07
Updated: 2011-10-07
Packaged: 2017-10-24 09:24:41
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,618
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/261770
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/coinin/pseuds/coinin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>One fine spring morning, John Watson turns into a tree.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Spring

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by [this prompt](http://sherlockbbc-fic.livejournal.com/5880.html?thread=23135992#t23135992) on the Sherlock kinkmeme, in which the prompter asked for John turning into a tree, only not crack. I managed that much, and kind of completely ignored the rest of the prompt.
> 
> The poem quoted at the beginning of the section is "The Oak" by Alfred, Lord Tennyson.
> 
> Originally posted at kikainausagi.livejournal.com

_Live thy Life,  
Young and old,  
Like yon oak,  
Bright in spring,  
Living gold;_

 

The first time it happens, one morning in early spring, it is entirely by accident.

John is jogging along, keeping up with Sherlock's long-legged stride; Sherlock muttering wildly about something related to the case, John shivering and regretting his decision not to wear a jumper. It ought to be warm - the sun is out and shining brightly, but the light is pale and anemic and there is a biting wind that steals all warmth. They are somewhere in the north-east of Hampstead Heath, and, judging from the chain link fence posted all over with "Trespassers Will Be Prosecuted" signs, somewhere they are not supposed to be. _Business as usual, then_ , John thinks, tucking his hands deeper into his pockets.

Sherlock holds up one hand - _stop_ \- and John does. For a moment, sheltered from the wind by a ruined, moss-grown wall, John can feel the sunlight seeping warm and comforting into bones made stiff by winter's long chill. It has been a miserable week all told: Sherlock's latest case seems to involve an inordinate amount of wading in the Thames and running through damp and chilly streets in the wee hours of the morning. John tips his head back, face seeking the light, and he finds himself wishing he could stretch out his arms to the sun, kick off his shoes and bury his feet in the pale green grass, just soak up the spring.

It happens all in an instant, quite without fanfare. One moment John is John Watson, cold and a little stiff, and the next he is stretching bare branches toward the sky and enjoying the feeling of roots sunk deep in good English soil.

John is dimly aware, through his quiet amazement at being a tree, that Sherlock has clambered over the wall and is off, calling for John to follow. A moment later he is back.

"John," Sherlock says impatiently, "what are you-" and then he stops, and _looks_ , and when he speaks again, he is very, very calm. "John. You're a tree."

John rattles his twigs, cutting loose a last winter-dead leaf. Sherlock catches the fragile thing, turning it over in careful fingers, then looks up and smiles.

"An English oak," he says, voice deep with amusement, " _Quercus robur_. Of course. But John," and here his eyes crinkle up at the corners with merriment, "you do realize 'Heart of Oak' is the Navy's march? Wrong _branch_ entirely."

John drops a twig on Sherlock's head in retaliation.

~*~

Being a tree, John discovers, is really quite nice. It is a calm, quiet sort of existence - during the day, he basks in the sunlight, and at night, listens to the owls in his branches singing to the moon. There is no stress, no worrying about the rent or the chip-and-pin machines, no psychosomatic limp, no aching shoulder, no trembling hand.

Unfortunately, there is also no Sherlock.

A family of wood mice takes up residence in a hole under one of John's roots, and one afternoon a grey and white tomcat chases a squirrel into his branches. The squirrel escapes, but the cat stays; hunting wood mice and birds and sleeping curled up in a cleft between two large roots.

One day - and John isn't sure how long it has been; trees having little need for marking the passage of time, but the grass is deeper and his branches are beginning to break into bud - Sherlock shows up, wading through the underbrush and getting his coat caught on brambles. The cat, dozing in a patch of sun near John's trunk, sits up, topaz eyes fixing on this strange intruder. Sherlock stares back, and for a long moment neither moves. Finally the cat gets up, stretches, saunters off a few meters, and sits down to wash itself in a desultory manner.

Sherlock seats himself with careless dignity, leaning back against John's trunk, dark curls catching on the rough bark. He is uncharacteristically silent as he stares up through John's branches, just blushed red and green-gold with new growth.

The cat, having finished its ablutions, stalks over to Sherlock and climbs into the consulting detective's lap, draping itself across bony legs. Sherlock stares, rather startled, at the puddle of fur. John rattles his twigs in amusement, his equivalent of a laugh.

Undaunted, Sherlock launches into a description of the latest case, so involved in the details that when the cat leans forward and butts at his hand, Sherlock begins to scratch behind its ears seemingly without conscious thought. John can feel the vibrations of the cat's purring where Sherlock's bony back rests against his trunk.

When Sherlock stops, suddenly, his usual "Oh!" of surprise and inspiration startles the cat. "You know," Sherlock says to it, "you're not as good as John at listening," at which point he stands, unceremoniously dumping the cat off his lap. He sprints off, leaping over last year's dead bracken, cellphone already in hand.

The second time Sherlock visits is only a little while later - a week, maybe, John thinks. Once again, Sherlock flops down and leans back against John. The cat, who had been off investigating a corner of the ruined wall for any signs of mice, comes slinking through the verdant grass and clambers into the waiting lap. Sherlock begins absently to pet it, one elegant hand smoothing down fur in long, slow strokes.

"It's rather lonely," Sherlock says, at long last, "at the flat. Without you."

And just like that, John realizes he has hands again instead of branches, and toes instead of roots, and that Sherlock is leaning heavily against his legs. John loses his balance, and they all - John, Sherlock, cat - go over in a surprised tangle of flailing limbs.

"John," Sherlock says, after they have sorted themselves out and the cat has retreated to a safe distance to set its fur to rights.

John tries to say something in return, even just to tell Sherlock to leave off gripping his shoulders quite so hard, but it's been rather a while since he has had a tongue, and it comes out as a garbled mess of consonants.

"You're you again," Sherlock continues, almost reverent.

It is the most ridiculous thing John has ever heard Sherlock say, and he begins to giggle, which turns into a full-throated laugh when he realizes that yes, he is himself again. In a moment Sherlock joins in, and they are two men laughing like madmen while a cat watches with wounded dignity.

"My clothes," John gasps out when he can breathe again.

"You haven't got any."

"Yes, exactly. It's going to look a bit odd when we get out of here."

"You can have my coat," Sherlock replies, shrugging out of it and dropping it around John's shoulders. The fabric is warm from Sherlock's body, and John suddenly realizes he had been cold.

"Now I look like a particularly well-dressed flasher," John grumbles as does up the buttons. Sherlock grins, and John asks the question that has been niggling away at the back of his mind ever since he returned to being human. "How long have I been a tree?"

"Three weeks. I told everyone you went to visit your sister. Mycroft didn't believe me, of course, and has been coming around twice a week to interrogate me about where you got off to. Apparently the fact that he couldn't locate you left him rather perturbed. Donovan is sure I murdered you and have been hiding the body. Anderson agrees with her, and Lestrade keeps giving me worried looks. He thinks I drove you off with my antisocial habits." His eyes slide toward John, just for a moment, as though gauging John's reaction.

"I suppose that's slightly more normal than turning into a bloody tree for weeks on end. What about Mrs. Hudson, then?"

"Ah. Mrs. Hudson..." Sherlock pauses and stares moodily into the forest. "I was rather - shaken, when I returned to the flat. I told Mrs. Hudson you had turned into a tree. She asked what kind, I told her. She then said, 'poor thing must need a rest. Make sure you visit him, dear,' and made me tea."

~*~

They managed to catch a cab at the edge of the Heath, though not until after garnering a whole collection of odd looks from passers-by. Sherlock, for once, holds the door open for John - and then keeps holding it open.

"Well then, come along," Sherlock says impatiently, and John realizes the cat has followed them. It twitches its tail, hops up into the cab, and seats itself regally in the center seat, tail curled neatly around its paws.

"Here now," the cabby starts to object, but Sherlock cuts him off.

"221B Baker Street, and I'll double the fare."

~*~

"Mrs. Hudson!" Sherlock shouts as soon as they are in the front door. "John's back."

"Oh, really? Sherlock told me you were a tree, dear," Mrs. Hudson says as she stands on tiptoe to give John a peck on the cheek.

"Yes."

"Well, I'm glad you're better now, love. Who's this handsome gentleman?" The last is delivered in a cooing voice, as Mrs. Hudson sees the cat. John had been a bit worried about that, bringing home a stray, but he sees now that he had no reason to worry. The cat, sensing an easy target, strolls forward and twines around Mrs. Hudson's ankles, purring violently. "Oh, isn't he friendly!"

"Your new cat, Mrs. Hudson," Sherlock says cheerfully. "Boots, I think. Doesn't it suit him? Now if you will excuse us, I should probably remove the newts from the bathtub, before John has one of his completely illogical fits."


	2. Summer

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which John becomes a tree, again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Quoted poem is once again "The Oak" by Alfred, Lord Tennyson.

_Summer-rich  
Then; and then  
Autumn-changed  
Soberer-hued  
Gold again._

The second time it happens, on a midsummer afternoon, it is not quite an accident.

John is fairly sure he has a concussion. ( _Splitting headache_ , notes a dry medical voice in the back of his head.) He is also fairly sure he should be listening to the nurses. He _would_ be listening to the nurses, except that they keep trying to make him move away from Sherlock, and that is simply not going to happen.

"John," says a new voice, and suddenly everyone is finding that they have tasks that urgently need doing, tasks that will take them far, far away from this quiet man in a suit.

"Mycroft," John replies. It comes out indistinct; his tongue feels thick and unresponsive. ( _Slurred speech_ , the doctor points out.)

"I have been informed by the very best that my brother will be back to his usual abrasive self as soon -"

"I'm familiar with the treatment for severe blood loss," John snarls ( _irritability_ , that's three now.) He is very familiar - far too familiar, intimately so - with blood loss, with what it feels like and what it looks like. Sherlock is in good hands; past the worst and really in minimal danger now. Rationally, John knows he should leave Sherlock and let someone look at his head.

He isn't feeling very rational.

"John, while I commend your loyalty, you need a medical examination yourself," Mycroft says soothingly, echoing John's own thoughts. "You may rest assured I will stay here until you are fit to return."

"He went into shock in the ambulance," John replies. "Hypovolemic shock. When your organs start shutting down because there isn't enough blood." The details surrounding his own head wound are a bit fuzzy ( _partial amnesia_ ; he's racking up symptoms at an alarming rate) but John doesn't think he will ever forget - ever be able to forget - Sherlock in the ambulance, chalk white and cold under John's hands, eyes fluttering closed and breath coming in rapid, shallow pants.

Mycroft looks at him, then murmurs something to his assistant.

A moment later there are hands gripping John's arms, men in dark suits lifting him to his feet. John looks up at Mycroft, betrayed.

"It is for your own good, John."

 _Sod my own good_ , John thinks, and decides he doesn't want to move. Nothing - especially a pair of Mycroft's bully-boys - is going to make him leave this room.

His summer foliage, he decides a moment later, is really rather lovely: a rich olive green, tinged with gold. The hospital room is more than slightly cramped, though, even with half his branches out the window, and the fluorescent lighting itches. He can feel linoleum buckling and splitting as his roots search out the earth that is maddeningly out of reach, just beyond the concrete foundation. It is altogether uncomfortable, but John endures - he is good at that - because it is important. It is important that he stay where he is, and when it comes to remaining sessile, there are few things more accomplished than a tree.

There are voices, pulling him back from the relentless progress of feathery roots seeking through hair-fine cracks, voices saying something that ought to be significant - oh yes, his name.

"John. John. _John_ ," Sherlock's voice - weak and rough, but undeniably Sherlock's, which means he is awake, which means he really, actually, has survived. John's leaves shiver in rustling joy.

"John, you're crushing two of Mycroft's lackeys," Sherlock rasps. "Not that I would usually complain, but it seems they were trying to save you from your own stubborn idiocy, so I suppose I owe them something."

It is hard, in this constricted little room, but John shifts his branches, wood creaking in protest, and Mycroft's men scramble free. One of them may be gibbering slightly, but they both seem capable of moving under their own power.

"When you said John 'turned into a tree,'" Mycroft says slowly, "I did not realize you meant he _turned into a tree_."

"Of course I did, you twit. What else could I mean?"

"I confess I was not sure. The question has been bothering me for some months now."

"John," Sherlock says, ignoring his brother, "you're getting leaves all over me, and unless I'm mistaken - which I'm not - there is a swarm of bees outside rather interested in your upper branches. Change back." His voice is equal parts irritation and affection.

John can feel the bees, little moving points of sunlight all through his leaves, and he thinks he could grow to like them, given a little more time - but Sherlock's voice is insistent, and the hospital room is crushingly small.

A moment later and John is kneeling in the middle of the floor - which is completely ruined, like the rest of the room, and littered with twigs and leaves - once again quite without clothes. There are bewildered bees buzzing around his head, several scrambling through his hair, and Mycroft is looking at him in what can only be called stunned disbelief. John begins to giggle, then to laugh, and it is several minutes before he can get himself enough under control to stand and move to the shattered windows. There must still be some of the oak in him, he thinks as he coaxes the bees out his hair and shoos them into the open air, because he ought be more concerned about the combination of his own nakedness and the proximity of stinging insects. Instead he feels a deep and irrepressible joy welling up inside, as simple and irresistible as sunlight on green leaves.

When he turns back to the room, Sherlock is smiling. As Sherlock is white as a sheet, with bruise-dark rings under his eyes, the effect is really rather ghastly. John grins back anyway. Sherlock is alive and awake, John's concussion is gone, and they have finally got one over Mycroft. All in all, a good day.

Mycroft clears his throat. "Margaret, would you procure a change of clothes for Doctor Watson?"


End file.
